


Etat d'absence

by LittleLinor



Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:23:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3897922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLinor/pseuds/LittleLinor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caring hearts can't be trusted to guard themselves, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Etat d'absence

**Author's Note:**

> Birthday present for two of my friends. I CAN'T BELIEVE I WROTE THIS

The boy standing alone near the window has blue hair and golden eyes, and if the formality of his clothing doesn't seem out of place in the current company (it _is_ quite an extravagant party, after all), the still, almost poised way he carries himself is.  
He looks just old enough to be allowed to travel alone, but young enough that he probably shouldn't be, probably no more than twenty, and Serra finds his interest piqued (he has, after all, always had an eye for vulnerability; it's how he's survived thus far).  
"Are you bored?" he asks in English, because this party has enough nationalities represented that he doesn't feel like trying every language he knows for a better common one.  
The boy turns his eyes to him, and where Serra expected surprise, he gets a surprisingly hard stare, instead, laced with something like resignation.  
The party suddenly feels a lot more interesting.  
"I don't mix too well in high society, surprisingly enough."  
His grammar is perfect and his elocution stable, though Serra still notes an accent behind it. French? It's been a while since he met anyone from France, not since...  
Well, who cares. He has better things to do than search his memories for someone he likely beat into the ground.  
"Surprisingly?" he parrots, tilting his lips in a charming smile.  
"Ah--" the boy falters for a second, looks down for a second, then back up, eyes guarded. "My family used to frequent those circles..."  
And lost everything, likely. That's how it goes, after all.  
"Well, you certainly don't look out of place here," he smiles, all sweet, protective flattery. Make him feel safe. It's a scary world out there, full of vultures.  
He could laugh.  
"But what brings you here?" he continues, taking a sip of his glass.  
"... I came with a friend. A business venture. We didn't expect to be invited."  
"It would have been a shame if you had not," Serra says, and though that doesn't get him the expected blush, there's still something that shifts in the boy's eyes, something both hard and weakening, and a bit sad to boot. Well. "Are you a part of this business venture, then? Or simply here for tourism?"  
"I'm here to make sure he doesn't make a fool of himself, mostly," he says, and there's an edge of derision in his voice.  
Ah, but the protective idea is cute, though. As is his belief that he could actually protect anyone, when it looks like he can't even protect himself.  
"A noble goal." He smiles, waves a waiter over with a discreet hand signal, and takes another glass of wine, offering the other to his new companion. "You have my respect, my dear..." he pauses, tilting his head just slightly with a questioning rise of his voice.  
"... Olivier."  
French indeed, then. The name sounds oddly familiar.  
But he has met and beaten many opponents, and more than one was from Europe.  
"Pretty name. I'm Raoul."  
The boy nods.  
"So why are you alone now?" he asks, picking an olive from a nearby table and crushing it between his teeth with maybe just a slightly more leisurely pace than would be appropriate (and Olivier's eyes follow it, just like he wanted, and he has to hold back the urge to smirk).  
"He's in," and there's a slight wince on his face as he says the word: "company. I didn't exactly want to follow."  
"A pity. Can I keep you company, then?"  
His eyes narrow, like he's catching the implication but refusing to completely give weight to it.  
"Aren't you already?"  
"I could take you somewhere more entertaining," he smiles. "Or, if you're so bored..." he reaches in his pocket for his ever present deck, "do you play?"  
Olivier falters, something in his body language breaking, and Serra uses the chance to inch just a bit closer.  
"... I do play."  
"Wonderful. Let's go, then."  
He resists the urge to grab his hand, and merely presses his shoulder instead, leading him into a nearby room but leaving the door ajar. No need to scare him, with his shoulders already so tense.  
"It's a favourite past time of mine, you see," he explains, taking his deck out of its box and putting it down on a nearby table. "A good way to keep one's mind and instincts sharp."  
"I see."  
"In fact, the way we usually play here," he adds with a smile, "is as a form of gambling. It adds a bit of spice to the entire thing, don't you think? What do you say?"  
The boy stays silent, his eyes still on Serra's deck.  
"How about this," Serra offers in his smoothest voice, "for, say, that ring of yours?"  
And just like that something snaps, his spine straightening with a strength Serra had never seen in him until now, his eyes going back up to meet Serra's own.  
"I don't gamble."  
"A pity." Too far, then. Oh well. "Well, a friendly match, then. Shall we start."  
"... yes."

He's good.  
Too good to be a nobody, Serra thinks, and even for a friendly match he finds himself fighting seriously, actually treating him as a threat, because the look in the boy's eyes is too...  
... something. He still can't place the discomfort he feels, even though it's not aggressiveness he sees. He knows how to deal with aggressiveness, with people who think they're smarter than him and with cornered animals. But this is something else, and Serra doesn't _like_ what he doesn't understand or control.  
And he's _losing_ , slowly giving ground as Olivier calmly and coldly executes his combos, and he's been pushed to five damage when his turn comes.  
He pastes a smile on his face and declares his vanguard's attack.  
"... guard."  
He places his guards between them, enough to stop his attack, and one trigger more.  
There are still cards in his hand, and Serra stops himself from frowning. Something up his sleeve, maybe. Or maybe he's more of a gambler than he said.  
His first check is a critical.  
"Seems like luck is finally on my side, my dear." He's met with silence, and that's what drives him to smile further and tap his vanguard with his index finger, ignoring his still-standing rear-guard. "I give all the effects to my vanguard."  
The second card is also a critical.  
Still silent, his eyes almost never leaving Serra's, Olivier draws his damage cards. Grade three. Perfect guard. Draw trigger.  
"Ah, how sad. But maybe it was fate," he says with a smile.  
"... indeed. It probably was." And for some reason Olivier is smiling back, a strange resigned smile brushed with derision. "I should have expected this."  
"What do you mean?"  
"Nothing of importance. Thank you for the game."  
"Don't you want a rematch? Still friendly, of course."  
"No, I think I learned enough from this fight." He picks up his cards and bows. The gesture isn't French, and it's enough to delay his reaction for the time Olivier needs to thank him again and exit the room, mentioning his friend and the necessity of a sober chaperone.  
When Serra picks up his cards and rejoins the main party, no amount of roaming reveals even a glimpse of blue hair.


End file.
